


Year of the Rat

by BajinSetan



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Basigan, Enemies to Lovers, Headcanon backstory to Basil and Ratigan's relasionship, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Murder Mystery, Pining, Rasil, Ratigan is slightly woobified but still a shit head, Rats, Rats & Mice, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BajinSetan/pseuds/BajinSetan
Summary: After years of chasing the nefarious Professor Ratigan, Basil has finally put him behind bars. But without a wit to match him, Basil soon finds that crime solving has become a dull sport. When a string of new murders leads Basil back to Ratigan, an entire world of deception, corruption, and mystery begins to unfurl before him.
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/Padraic Ratigan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	Year of the Rat

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone ask for another indulgent story about a disney movie from the 80s? No? Too bad here it is. 
> 
> I wanted a grimdark, more murdery version of the story between Ratigan and Basil. I just want to explore their relationship and how they got there. I also just love rats. I plan to deal with dark themes, descriptions of murder, and the characters will also have victorian ideals and ambiguous morals. So be warned. The main focus is still Basil and Ratigan. The rating might also change as the story progresses. 
> 
> I'd like to thank Selkie_de_Suzie for helping me edit this first chapter. Seriously go read her work, she's genuinely one of the best writers I know and I only hope I can be a fraction of the writer she is one day. Also thank you to my friends who proof read like Miss_take. Miss_take writes awesome Inuyasha x Kagome. 
> 
> Second chapter is in the works! Enjoy!

Another dead body. 

This one was fresh, the blood still red and vibrant on the dirty pavement in the dingy part of London. The body was lying in the square of a poor trade town called Charlottesville, a collection of tiny homes beneath rickety old buildings that looked close to collapse. The street corner where the body lay intersected where the rain flowed to the sewers. The blood had not yet been washed away by the evening mist, but the moisture in the air clung to Basil's fur, making him damp and sending a slight chill through his slender frame. 

But Basil stood rigid, calculating over the corpse while the mouse guards bustled around him anxiously, keeping passing mice away from the scene. His eyes darted over the body of the young mousesette. No older than twenty. She had been strangled, stabbed, her belongings strewn across the ground, soaking in puddles. Basil picked up a tube of expensive lipstick. A french make. _Amoureux Rose_ , "Lovers Rose." 

Her death was decidedly violent. Just like the three others. He calculated the depth of the stab wounds and the bruising below her tawny fur. Her assailant was strong, knelt on top of her to watch her die, pinning her painfully to the pavement. Basil knelt there now, legs on either side of her hips, mimicking the killers movements, being careful not to disturb any possible evidence. Of course, this only told him the killers position, not their reasons. He bent low until he was right up to her face, moving the hair from her shoulders looking for the smallest detail. 

“Eghad man! Show a little respect for the dead.” Dawson exclaimed, holding a handkerchief to his nose to block out any putrid smells. Basil snorted. Silly thing to do, no strong odor would occur this early in decomposition. 

“The dead are dead, Dawson. This woman doesn’t need that now. She needs justice.”

“Yes, well...even so. You shouldn’t be touching that without any gloves.” He felt a hand on his shoulder as Dawson produced a pair for him. In his haste to get to this scene before the police bungled it, he had forgotten his own. He took them with a nod, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. It always helped having Dawson around. 

He slipped the gloves over his slender hands and went back to work, searching through the girl's brown hair and fur. _Give me something..._

“By God! What on earth are you doing!?” exclaimed Constable Bruch, a heavy set mouse with a salt and pepper mustache, to which several crumpet crumbs clung, likely from a rushed snack he partook in moments ago. _As food holds far more importance than doing one’s duty._ Basil spared him a small, scathing glance before searching once more.

But Bruch refused to retreat. “Stop this at once Basil! I swear I’ll have you drug out on your tail before you can—“

_“Aha!”_

Basil plucked a single gray hair from her sparkling crystal necklace, holding it up to the light of the street lamps. 

“What...a hair?” the constable asked, curious now. Dawson leaned in for a look as well, eyes widening. 

Basil declined to answer and busied himself with opening up a small envelope, placing the hair inside and sealing it tightly before placing it back in his satchel. 

The constable gave a grumbled _harumph_ , puffing his chest out. "Now see here Basil! You are tampering with police evidence! Hand it over at once!" 

Basil stood up, dusting off his trousers before facing the constable, looking decidedly bored. And goodness, why shouldn’t he? This was the same droll argument they had many times before, one would think the older officer would recall this by now…

"Well, seeing as you will not allow me to take the entire body with me to examine, I am forced to make due with this. Really, it’s beneficial to you, Constable, your men would no doubt throw this in the bin before knowing what to do with it. Or need I remind you of the time you pushed me off the Levshire case? I did take your advice back then didn’t I? After all your _whining_.” 

The constable's eyes grew bloodshot with anger. But Basil only lit a pipe, with all the nonchalance of someone who could not be bothered. 

“Sadly, that led to the hostage situation in which Dawson and I had to risk our lives to stop Levshire heir from bombing a heavily populated portion of the city. Or am I misremembering?”

Bruch seemed set to implode, and Dawson looked between the two in horror as his compatriot languidly blew a steady stream of smoke at the officer. Basil always seemed to find himself in more trouble with his allies than his enemies. _Damnation, Basil!_

“Now, now Constable,” Dawson sputtered, approaching the two much taller mice, sweating profusely. Even being a war vetren, he despised conflict. “We only want to help. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement, hmm? We will bring the hair back to you as soon as we are finished with it, along with any information we learn.” 

Basil’s eyes went wide in shocked protest at Dawson’s offer, but at his stern look the detective let out an exasperated breath before turning back to the constable and nodding. “You have my word.” 

This seemed to calm the constable’s rage a bit, his shoulders lowering, but still he glared at Basil behind bushy brows. He huffed through his mustache. "You might have had your name in some papers, Basil, but you're a sorry excuse for what polite society's come to. How we got so desperate to ask for your help is beyond me." 

He turned on his heel, walking over to his subordinates. 

Dawson looked over worriedly at Basil. Even after everything, most at Scotland Yard did not care for the great mouse detective. Unfortunately, the brilliance of Basil’s brain had never learned to go hand in hand with congeniality... 

Yet Basil just looked back at the body, frowning slightly. A few mice moved to cover the corpse in a white sheet. It settled over the young mouse's face, shrouding her in a ghostly silhouette. 

“Really Basil? Was that any way to speak to an officer of the law? You could have been arrested!” 

Dawson has been scolding Basil on the entire way back from the crime scene, Toby happily providing a ride. Basil had ignored most of the rambling, taking care not to roll his eyes too heavily lest he strain them. 

Why _should_ he care about Scotland Yard or what they do? As far as he was concerned, they were nothing but glorified and ineffective uniforms for show. The only thing they were really good for was keeping _him_ locked away. 

_Him..._

Basil had not gone a single day without thought of his former evil foil. The mastermind that eluded Basil for years. Ratigan. 

Basil recalled their final bout. The clock tower, Oliva, and Ratigan's terrifying desperation. To everyone’s surprise, he survived his fall off Big Ben. He was able to utilize some semblance of his criminal intellect in those final moments before he plummeted to his death, managing to break his fall by grasping and clinging to a passing pigeon. While it did not carry him to a safe escape, Ratigan evaded the capture of death just narrowly. As always. 

But he certainly had been broken...

Basil was struck with many feelings as he saw Ratigan loaded into a police cart, suit tattered, body broken and bloody. Such a fall had horribly injured him, yet still he carried himself pristinely, nose held high and sneering at any mouse that dared whisper the word _rat_ or _fiend_ or far worse.

Mostly it infuriated Basil, who wanted nothing more than to see Ratigan's complete and utter humiliation. To have that moment stolen away by Ratigan’s commitment to the facade of sophistication was his last great caper. 

But…

But what he couldn’t get out of his mind was the look Ratigan gave him as the heavy door of the police carrier slammed shut. 

He had smiled at Basil. 

Not the terrifying toothy grin he’d come to know. But a melancholy, defeated look, one that said “Good game, old chap.” 

Then the cart rolled off into the distance, Basil staring after it. 

Ever since, Basil obsessed over that interaction. Going over the hidden meaning again and again. What was his aim? Had he been trying to convey he had an escape plan? Or had he been looking at someone else? Basil’s ground his teeth at the very thought. _How dare the fiend._

Or was this his plan all along? To so vex his intellectual foe with the mystery of that smile that he could scarcely concentrate on anything else? 

On several occasions Basil had thought to march to the prison and demand answers from the rat himself. But after two years, there was no change. No plot. No escape. Ratigan was in prison. That's where he was meant to stay for the rest of his days. 

And yet still Basil couldn’t let go. Ratigan’s rampage of crime had been stopped, but he still held sway over Basil’s mind. 

Dawson had grown quite sick of Basil's obsession and instructed that he ought to find a new outlet now that Ratigan was behind bars. Basil had agreed, but it was no easy task. Thwarting Ratigan had been Basil’s entire reason for existing these many years. Fighting and foiling Ratigan's schemes had somehow become a habit, a part of Basil's life, as much as his pipe or violin.

_When a cog is cut from a clock, it cannot run, so how can I be expected to run when I no longer-_

“Basil? Basil, are you even listening to me?” Dawson asked incredulously. 

Basil started. “What?”

“I _said,_ what do you think happened? To the girl?"

Basil coughed. “Ah, _yes._ The girl. Come Dawson. I’ll tell you more inside.” 

After dismounting and sending Toby on his way, Basil and Dawson entered their shared living space. Dawson had been living there after Ratigan’s defeat and truth be told, Basil quite enjoyed the company. Dawson seemed to be the only mouse able to stand his odd hours and unconventional way of life. It helped that Dawson seemed to enjoy the adventures Basil took him on, even his strange and outlandish experiments. 

There was also the fact that Dawson was easily impressed and it did wonders for Basil's ego. 

Basil quickly set upon removing his deerstalker hat and coat, wasting no time getting into his soft smoking robe and gliding across the room to his chemistry set, talking all the while. 

“The girl was murdered late evening, in a low traffic area where she was not a local. Judging by her expensive dress and full face of makeup, she was likely headed on an outing, perhaps a romantic lesion, as evidenced by the ruby red lipstick she wore, not something the average lady wears without reason and, I might add, a rather expensive brand.” Basil took said lipstick out from his coat pocket and held it to the light. He had nicked it from the scene as well, and imagined Bruch’s face at learning that. Well, what the constable didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

He smirked before continuing. "It seems she was only passing through that part of town to get to her next destination. The killer did this late but out in the open. Suggesting they knew she would be there, alone, and had likely seen her there before." 

Dawson was starting a kettle, settling the pot over the fire before sighing heavily. "Poor thing. So young. What was she doing in a town like that so late? You don't think she was..." 

Dawson hesitated and looked up to see Basil already busy at work at his chemistry set, bringing out the bag with the hair to set it among the beakers and tubes. 

"Prostitution?” Basil shook his head. “Unlikely. Her parents are a very wealthy lord and lady. She had no need to sell anything. No...no, she was meeting someone."

Dawson made a thoughtful noise, patting his belly as he waited for the kettle to boil, before glancing at his companion a touch worriedly. “Basil...I have something to tell you…”

Basil seemed not to hear his companion, flitting about to find a book on different animal furs. He knew it by heart, but lately he felt the need to double check himself. _Not on top of the game like you should be, old chap._

"I say...Basil…?” 

Basil was flipping through the book now, switching his gaze from the hair back to a page then back again and muttering to himself, a steady stream of “no, no, no…” uttered with each turned page. 

“Basil, really, I _must_ tell you—”

“In a moment Dawson! Might need a comparison. Hold still Doctor--.” Basil quickly reached over to his friend and plucked a single hair from the top of his head without even stopping his stride. 

“ _Ouch!_ Basil—!” Dawson jerked backwards, falling against the heavy wooden mantle of the fireplace. 

The contents shook at the impact, and from a nest of newspaper clippings fell a tiny golden bell, like an acorn from a tree. It hit the floor with a gentle _ring_ , landing between Dawson’s feet. 

Basil’s ear twitched at the sound and he stopped in his tracks. 

Dawson stared down at the bell, his eyes wide. When he spoke, there was quiet disappointment in his voice. “Why do you still have this?"

Basil said nothing. 

"Basil?" Dawson’s voice was louder this time. 

But still Basil didn’t speak. His jaw seemed to be working. 

Dawson’s brows furrowed and his own jaw set, and he turned back to the mantle to push aside a few newspaper clippings. 

A smirking visage of a certain criminal mastermind was revealed, looking down upon them with a hungry, arrogant gaze. Basil finally looked up, his shoulders tense. 

"Basil, you told me you got rid of this!" Dawson’s voice was quite loud indeed now. He wasn’t an angry mouse by nature, but as Basil already knew, he brought the worst out in others. The shorter mouse continued, looking genuinely upset. “You promised me that you had! We _talked_ about this.”

Basil tried to muster up a blasé laugh, but it sounded weak even to him. "It's only a bell and a picture, old chap. Besides, you can't permit me a few pieces of memorabilia from our finest case ever solved?" 

Dawson’s frown deepened, knowing that Basil was attempting to play to his sentiment. And he had a fair enough point, the fellow had things like this all over the flat. Why were these objects any different than the others?

Oh, he knew why. 

As Dawson struggled to speak, Basil focused on observing him, his brow furrowing. The doctor was plainly upset but Basil had a hard time discerning as to _why._ For all his great intellect, he always struggled with the mysteries of the socially appropriate interaction. He had thought he had gotten better with Dawson, but apparently Basil had just shown he was still far too stubborn a dog to train. Basil felt the usual flash of annoyance he got whenever he had been found _wanting_ and quickly went back to work, ignoring his disappointed friend. 

Dawson, seeing all this, let out a long sigh, weaving his fingers together. 

"Basil…it's fine, you keeping mementos that hold memories, bits and bobs, and all that. But…” he paused yet persevered, “... you were so distraught when Ratigan was put away! You convinced yourself he was up to something! You barely slept, bathed, or ate!” Dawson looked at the younger mouse seriously, concern in his eyes. “It's been 2 years, Basil. He's done nothing. You have to let these things go or they'll only make you dwell on it. On _him._ "

Basil sniffed at the mention of that name, making a great show of no longer being interested in the conversation. "I assure you, old chap, they are utterly meaningless to me. Quite honestly, I had forgotten them. You can burn them for all I care.” 

Despite his words, Basil had a stiffness to his back, and Dawson noted with no small amount of alarm that his hand gripped at the shoulder where that one old wound seemed to flare up. The wound from the clock tower, the wound that _he_ had given him. 

He sighed once more, frustrated but full of feeling. “Basil, I know things haven’t been easy. I know that you feel a bit...lost. I admit, cases have been reaching dead ends. Perhaps you should take a break from all this? Let your brain readjust to handle it all. After all, you spent so much time hunting Ratigan, it’s normal to—”

_“Enough Dawson!”_

Basil banged his fists at his desk, tipping over beakers and shaking the wood below his hands. He hadn’t yelled, but the sternness in his voice would have chilled a summer day. "There will be no more dead ends. I've found evidence and I don't need you to tell me about what I can and cannot handle." 

Basil felt heat in his cheeks and his heart already started to sink in regret of his words. When he finally dared to look up at his friend, he wished he hadn’t. Dawson stood there, hurt spreading across his older features. 

For a horrible moment, Basil and Dawson stood there in silence until the kettle began to whistle loudly, interrupting any further discussion on the matter. Dawson sighed before moving to remove the kettle and pour himself a cup. 

He left Basil's cup empty. 

Mrs. Judson burst in suddenly in a flight of worry, huffing and puffing. “What is all this noise? Do you have any idea what time it is? You boys and your late nights! I’ll have no more of this now! Understand?”

Basil studiously ignored them both, preoccupying himself with cleaning up the mess he made on his desk. Dawson gave him one long final look before turning to their housekeeper. 

“Apologies, Mrs. Judson." Dawson said, sounding defeated. "I’m headed to bed. I will see you both in the morning. Basil...let me know what you turn up.” 

With that Dawson took his tea and headed upstairs. Mrs. Judson watched him go, concerned. “Good heavens. Are you two alright? I’m terribly sorry Mr. Rathborne...”

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Judson. Long night on the case is all. I will be sure to keep it down.” Basil gave her a charming smile as he gently guided her out of the room, pushing on her shoulders. 

Mrs. Judson gave him a look that said she didn’t quite believe him, but seemed satisfied enough that she made her way back up the stairs to bed. And with that, Basil was left alone. 

Try as he might to throw himself back into his work, he couldn't just yet. Basil passed a hand over his face, exhaling roughly. Normally, solving a case was exactly the thing he needed to get his mind off unsavory things. Some might call it avoidance, true, but he liked to think of it as a constructive coping mechanism. But at that moment, he could barely remember what his process had been...

He stretched over the back of his chair with a heavy groan, leaning back until the room was upside down. He ran fingers through his sandy fur and rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly more exhausted than he had in a long time. When he opened them, he found himself staring at the little golden bell on the floor. 

Dawson was right. Things had not been easy. Everything in Basil's world had changed all at once. Not long ago he had been a lonely bachelor without substantial notoriety or friends. Now he was a world famous detective and he was constantly contacted for his services. 

Basil did not start out hating it. In fact, he had loved it. The praise of his work, adoration for the justice he could bring about. Finally, he could help mice by using the gifts he was given. Finally, mice would see the importance of the work he was doing for the field of criminal forensics. It was all he ever wanted. 

So why on earth was he so distracted and unfocused? 

Ever the detective, Basil set upon finding out why exactly his mood had altered so drastically. Perhaps, he thought, it was the type of work. Before all the fame he had only ever received calls from strange folk here and there. They would come into his home, prattling on about an "unsolvable" mystery, and Basil had needed only to look at them for a short amount of time before he solved it and sent them on their way. 

Now, he received royal summons from Dukes, Lords and Ladies. World councils and courts begged for his expertise to solve their problems. He even became the personal advisor to the Queen herself, the irony of which was not lost on him. 

Through it all, he readily provided for all his new clientele. But soon, he realized, the problems and puzzles were all the same. The clients just had more money to give. Missing jewels, lecherous lords, and corrupt politicians became old very quickly, and Basil felt the sharp edges of his mind begin to dull. 

Basil stood up from his chair, spinning around to walk over to the bell on the floor. He picked it up, taking care so that it did not make too much noise, holding it to his face. His reflection stared back at him from the golden metal, distorted by the curve of the bell. Even without the distortion, he would have barely recognized the mouse he saw there. Tired, worn by the events of death and crime that used to invigorate him… 

He remembered how only 2 years ago how _easy_ it all came to him. How thrilling it was to sniff out every scheme Ratigan ever concocted before he even set it in motion. Basil frowned, a strange stirring in his stomach. Was it wrong of him to long for that? Should he feel guilty for wishing great crimes to be committed simply to entertain himself with the act of solving it? 

The very idea of such longing made him feel dirty, and he gripped the bell in his hand as he looked up at the picture of his former nemesis. He searched the face, like he had so many times before, before giving the smirking visage a thunderous glower. 

"I bet you're so proud of yourself," he growled. "Knowing you were the only mind that could ever match me.” Basil straightened his spine, looking at the painting with angry pride. “But now _you're_ behind bars. _I_ put you there. _I_ won. You're no longer able to commit your heinous crimes. So why—?" 

Basil found himself standing at the mantle. He couldn’t remember walking to it. 

_To him._

That hungry smile filled his gaze, and Basil had to look down, his hands gripping the edge as he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable in the quiet of the empty room. 

_"Why is all of this suddenly so...difficult…?"_

Basil stood there, gazing up at his rival. His obsession. His...friend. Old memories he’d long buried came flooding back, until a twisting pain began to form in his belly and tighten in his chest. No. He could not think of that now. Those days were far in the past. No, the memories that stayed at the front of his mind were that of pain, lies, and violence. 

The scars burned under his robe as he stared up at the picture of the professor. He stared so long his eyes felt weary. He was trying to pull an answer from the picture like he used to. But of course, just as always, he would get nothing. 

_Foolish. Here you are back to your old ways. Looking for the solution in the eyes of a rat._

And all at once it hit him.

Basils eyes widened. He jolted forward, lifting his light frame up close to the picture, moving the clippings and papers out of the way so quickly he nearly tore the pages apart. 

Gray. Ratigan had gray hair. He remembered that night as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Ratigan had always kept his fur hidden under layers of fine clothing of the best quality. Hiding it from the world and their judgement. But that night, the coarse thick fur stuck out in patches along his ruined suit and Basil had huge chunks of it all over his coat from their tussle in the rain.

He exploded forth from the mantle, nearly toppling the frame as he ran to his coat closet. He pushed through the stacks of winter coats and other clothing until he found a bag in the corner. He snatched the bag and inside were the tattered remains of his coat from the night of Big Ben. Basil thanked his own obsessive behavior, that he had never tossed the coat and neither Dawson nor Mrs. Judson had found it. Though he was sure to get an earful if they ever did. 

Quickly he pulled the coat out looking over the tattered bloody thing. He pushed past the unpleasant emotions that the item of clothing inspired in him, combing his fingers over the coat with purpose. A few hairs shook loose from the dried blood. Most of it was his, some of it Ratigan. Small gray hairs floated down onto the desk. Basil had to steady his movements, leaning over and grabbing the hairs and gently placing them on the table. He was so ecstatic to see them he had to bite his lip to keep from exclaiming too loudly and wake the others. 

He searched with haste for the evidence bag with the hair from the crime scene. Once he found it, he had to steady his hands to keep from accidentally mixing the hairs up. Even with the naked eye Basil could tell they were similar. Same length, color, and texture. Long, gray, and thick. Under a microscope, he could confirm. They had the same structural build. 

Rat hair.


End file.
